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Thank you, Matthias. I'm also happy with the final result. It's all carving; I only use an engraver in very rare cases. And even then, it's more when I need to drill rather than mill. For me, it's too big and rough a tool, which is difficult to control on small details. That's why I only use hand tools. With them, I always know how much pressure to apply so as not to cut off too much. I have several sets of small chisels. They were custom-made. They can be seen on the table in the last photos. The whole set looks like this: P.S. I don't know what advice I can give about carving. I don't know any secret tricks or spells. Just a little patience and something interesting to listen to while you work. P.P.S. By the way, I really liked your acanthus scrolls. I even saved them for myself. They turned out to be very delicate, precise, and elegant shapes. Maybe you should take a break from your work and give your eyes a rest. That's what I do when I don't like what I'm doing. Or I find another theme to work on. Then, after a few days, I come back and look at it again. Sometimes that's enough to realize that it's not so bad after all. And sometimes I get ideas about what I can change.

In the previous part of the story, I stopped at this photograph. I will begin this section with it as well. Simply because here it is already noticeable that work has finally begun on the last part of the figure that had not been touched before — the feathers of the helmet: Everything would have been fine, but once again I was dissatisfied after finishing this stage. Again. The crest with the feathers turned out to be positioned too high above the helmet, and it looked unattractive. The mistake had been made at the very beginning, when I was leaving a rough blank for the feathers but cut the lower edge too high. As a result, the lower edges of the feather quills could no longer be brought down any further. I spent several days thinking about what I could do next. I tried to “take a break” from the sculpture, setting it aside and hoping that with time I would be able to look at the result more calmly. But after the pause, my opinion did not change. The feathers still looked wrong. They needed to be lower, closer to the helmet. And what could be done? Only this: And after all — or almost all — of the work, adjustments, and reworking, my Alexander looked like this:

After finishing the work on the folds of the fabric, it was time to move on to the vegetal ornament in the lower part of the figure. During the plaster test I deliberately did not bring this area to a finished state: the overall solution was already clear to me, and I saw no reason to spend time refining it in plaster. Now the moment had come to check whether those earlier considerations were correct. I liked the result of this stage. The work progressed easily, and I genuinely enjoyed the process. It is not often that I feel I can simply continue calmly, without constantly returning to doubts in my mind. At that moment, I allowed myself to relax a little. Nevertheless, there were still plenty of reasons for reflection. I kept turning the figure in my hands, examining it carefully from different angles. This frame already appeared earlier — and that is not a mistake. It is simply needed now for a different discussion. At a certain point I deliberately set aside the cuirass with its fine ornamentation and focused on the cloak. Only after the boundary of the cloak becomes clear can one understand which elements on the cuirass will actually remain visible and which will be hidden. And then, returning my attention to the central area, I realized that the planned French eagle was hardly readable at all. It was getting lost in the overall mass of forms, while the griffin’s wings above it only intensified the feeling of visual confusion. The elements began to interfere with one another. At first I decided to remove the griffin’s wings — they seemed unnecessary. But already in the process I understood that the problem ran deeper. In the end, I made a more radical decision and completely abandoned the figure of the French eagle. Earlier I had described in detail the logic of planning and allegories, building an entire system of meanings. But in practice it became clear that, at this scale, excessive literalness works against the form. I kept only the griffin — as a more generalized yet visually legible symbol. Its silhouette is larger, and it is perceived more clearly within the overall rhythm of the composition. As a result, the abdominal area came to look like this: …to be continued.

David, thank you very much for your support and kind words. You are absolutely right that an author almost always sees far more in their work than most viewers do, and is often much stricter with themselves than anyone else could be. I will try to explain my position. I deliberately make a point of talking about and showing problematic areas. First, because this blog is read by people with very different levels of experience, including professionals who see such nuances perfectly well even without my comments. Pretending that these issues do not exist would not be entirely honest. Second, it is important for me to show the work not as a sequence of “perfect” images, but as a process — with searching, doubts, and subsequent corrections. Many of these moments later become starting points for solutions that I myself would not have found if I had not acknowledged the problem in time. I hope this approach will also be useful for those who are just learning to look at form more attentively: to see not only successful areas, but also those that require further work. It is all the more interesting then to observe how such problematic situations can be resolved and brought to a more cohesive result.

The working area continues to shift — now I have moved on to Medusa Gorgon. If it were not for these photographs, I would no longer remember how she looked at the very beginning. Later, her appearance will change again. The thinnest and most dangerous area was located where Jupiter was placed. That is why I began working on him on the chest earlier than on all the other elements. Everything else was gradually “pulled” toward him. This sequence also proved useful from the standpoint of possible failure: if I had accidentally cut through the sculpture, at least I would not have spent much time on the rest of the work. Thanks to preliminary measurements, however, mistakes were avoided and nothing had to be redone. And once the most risky area no longer caused concern, I could safely remove the measuring base — that is, move on to the drapery of the cloak. As a result, the fabric began to look like this. In general, it will remain this way, although I strongly disliked the folds on the left. I even considered a radical solution: cutting out that entire area, inserting a new piece, and doing everything again. But that would have been a last resort. Such repairs rarely go unnoticed, so for a long time I hesitated to take such a drastic step. Looking ahead, I can say that the sculpture did not require such an operation. It was possible to make corrections through subtler changes of form and achieve a more acceptable result — but that will come only at the very end. Until then, photographs with those same folds, which spoiled my appetite, will keep appearing. I will have to endure it. …to be continued…

It looks very elegant!

Now everything has become clear. Yes, the translator and their involvement in the dialogue do introduce certain adjustments to understanding .

I am confused. Most likely, we have run into subtleties that depend on nuances of translation. Which Alexander are we talking about? The Russian Alexander or the Greek one? I understood your comment as noting a resemblance between my sculpture and the Greek commander. Did I misunderstand you? I replied that I did not set myself the goal of conveying the features of Alexander the Great. Only those of the Russian Alexander. I also did not seriously study the question of whether ancient sculptures depicting Alexander the Great are considered accurate in terms of true portrait likeness. I assumed that most of these sculptures date from later periods, and that sculptors created their images without precise knowledge of the appearance of the Greek king. I may be mistaken, of course — I did not research this topic in depth, so I cannot state this with certainty. If you have other information, I would be very interested to learn more details. At the end of my message I added a conclusion: if my Alexander ended up resembling Alexander the Great, then this happened purely by accident. And that is actually quite amusing. I made a great effort to achieve likeness to one specific person, spent time and energy, searched for additional information… and in the end I achieved a resemblance to someone I had no intention of depicting at all. Let us do a comparison at the very end. For the sake of a fair experiment, we could proceed as follows: you choose a portrait of Alexander the Great (Greek) that is considered an authentic likeness. I have already shown the image of the Russian Alexander that I was trying to approach. Then we place the finished result of my work next to them — alongside two portraits: your chosen portrait of Alexander the Great and the portrait of the Russian emperor — and compare them. By the way, is it possible to create a poll in the chat? It would be interesting to see the results. What do you think of this idea?

I forgot to answer the question about wood. I use different types of wood for different projects. This figure is made of pear wood. I don't use linden wood; it's too soft for me. I have only worked with boxwood once in my life. And I didn't like it. It turned out to be too hard. And I ruined my tool on it. Later, I talked to other carvers, and when I shared my impressions of boxwood, I heard that it is not such a hard material. I also heard that very old wood can be hard. Since I don't know where my block came from, I probably just had bad luck with it. And since I didn't like my first experience with it, I haven't even tried using it again for work.

Similar to Alexander the Great? I don't know how to answer that. While we are familiar with historical figures from the 19th century thanks to portraits, it is difficult to talk about the appearance of figures from antiquity. Alexander the Great was painted and sculpted in many different ways. I certainly did not set out to look for portraits of him. Therefore, any similarities are purely coincidental.

Today, I finished the final touches on Alexander and started repainting Mercury. And when I have to write about what's in the past at the same time, it creates a bit of a disconnect in my mind. When I write for a long time, I try to remember what exactly happened while I was working. What I was thinking about and what problems I was facing. And then suddenly it's all in the past and I know how it all ended. It's an interesting effect. So yes, there will be a happy ending. Probably...

Now it is possible to continue writing about the carving work. The face will continue to change and transform for a long time. Many of the adjustments are difficult to notice, which is understandable, because these are adjustments rather than radical changes. As a result, the work on the face will stretch almost until the very end of the entire project. It is necessary to take pauses, step away from the portrait, and then return to it after some time. Meanwhile, the epicenter of the work is gradually spreading wider. Already now it can be noted that outlines for future actions are beginning to appear both on the head and on the torso. And this is how the figure began to look after the first attempts at depicting Jupiter and the rest of the group. And already I do not like it. Everything is too small and unclear. Jupiter can still be identified in some way, but on the side, where according to my plan the French eagle should be, it turns into a complete mess. I wrote earlier that I planned to place a winged griffin behind the eagle, but only the wings remain. Even in this form it does not work well. For now, I hope that these are only initial outlines and that over time the forms will become clearer. I shift my attention to the helmet and the lion’s head on it. There is a great deal of work around this area. It is important to make refinements in different places — this reduces the risk of making rash decisions. Right now I really want to cut away the entire chest and start over. I do not like what is happening there. But this would be dangerous, because I am getting closer to the depth limit and could break through into the slot for the stem. That is why switching in time to another front of work is extremely important. …To be continued.

David, thank you for your words of support.

This frame marks a new stage of the work — I began working on the face. This is always the most difficult part. Faces cause the greatest anxiety, and in this project the face is especially important: I need to achieve a likeness to a specific person. For this reason, I will once again have to step aside briefly from the carving itself and show examples together with my reflections. I had thought about the portrait earlier as well. While working on a preliminary plaster figure, I even sculpted the head separately, making it larger in scale so that it would be easier to work with and easier to see. But I did not like the result. This meant that the subject had to be thought through more deeply. Naturally, for this work I collected many visual examples of how Alexander I had been depicted. I also remembered impressions left in my memory from reading War and Peace. There were descriptions of this man. “…The handsome, young Emperor Alexander, in a Horse Guards uniform and a triangular hat, with his pleasant face and resonant, soft voice, drew the full attention of everyone. Rostov … examined the beautiful, young, and happy face of the emperor…” “…Alexander’s face was even more beautiful than it had been at the review of the regiments three days earlier. It shone with such cheerfulness and youth, with such innocent youthfulness, that it recalled the playful liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and at the same time it was still the face of a majestic emperor…” “…He was wearing a blue uniform, open over a white waistcoat that descended over a rounded belly, white breeches tightly fitting the fleshy thighs of his short legs, and riding boots. His short hair had evidently just been combed, but one lock of hair fell down over the middle of his broad forehead. His white, plump neck stood out sharply above the black collar of the uniform; … on his youthful, full face, with a prominent chin, there was an expression of gracious and majestic imperial greeting…” Thus, in my imagination, an image emerged of a fairly attractive man with soft facial features. His appearance could even be described as childlike or feminine. Leo Tolstoy describes a person with a tendency toward corpulence. This is clearly not a sinewy athlete; he should have rounded features and full cheeks. This is the kind of person I needed to portray in my sculpture. It all seemed quite clear. But once I immersed myself in portraits and monuments, a whole avalanche of variants came crashing down on me. The images differed greatly from one another. When I began looking at three-dimensional examples — busts and monuments — it became even more difficult. I found myself staring at dozens of figures that were seemingly similar, yet completely different Alexanders. It felt like being at a party of Elvis Presley lookalikes or at a comic convention: everyone looks alike, yet you cannot tell who is real. I spent an enormous amount of time making a choice. Even before going to sleep, I would mentally return to Tolstoy’s lines and ask myself which of these Alexanders corresponded most closely to the descriptions. In the end, I left only two or three portraits in front of me. In this portrait, in my view, there is something very close to my impressions from the book: an image that is at once a defenseless child and a charming woman. And in this bust I saw exactly the direction I want to embody. An antique image of an emperor — outwardly calm and beautiful, yet capable of being firm and strong. Military attire only reinforces this sense of martial strength. The decision was made. I kept this image for myself as the main source of inspiration and tried to reproduce these facial features in my sculpture. P.S. So as not to return to the subject of the portrait again, I will say right away: I cannot claim that I managed to realize my idea one hundred percent. My Alexander did not become the ideal image I had hoped to create. Most likely, a viewer who does not know whom I was trying to depict will not immediately say, “That is Alexander I.” Unfortunately, I am not completely satisfied with the result. But I truly tried.

Thank you, David. That was back in October, and we had a great time. We met up with relatives we hadn't seen in eight years. It was a truly wonderful vacation.

Finally, after very long stories about plans, reflections, and all the rest, I can move on to showing the actual work with wood. The beginning. Everything is standard and familiar. Large masses of wood are cut away, and the desired shape is gradually searched for. Here I need to explain something. In fact, the green color is not just a dirty or stained area. I did this intentionally. At this stage, my whole family and I were leaving for a vacation, and I was afraid that while being absorbed in rest, I might forget exactly where I had stopped in the work. After returning, I could easily make a mistake. So I deliberately marked, with a very visible color, the area where no work should be done in the near future. Why? The sculpture must sit on the knee of the head, and at the back of the blank there is already a slot made into which the stem will later fit. The figure itself is designed in such a way that from the front I will be working very close to this slot. In some places, I could accidentally cut all the way through. It is therefore necessary to constantly monitor how much thickness remains at the thinnest point. The small figure is already mounted on a handle with tiny drops of glue. This means that I cannot remove the handle each time to take measurements and check the thickness at the most critical area. For this reason, before gluing the blank onto the handle, I took measurements and wrote the results down. I even tried to leave a written reminder for myself and photographed it. And now, when I am preparing this text, those photographs I once took for myself have become a clear explanation. Now the main thing is that this base area must remain unchanged, and that I do not cut anything away there and disturb the dimensions. That is exactly why the color marking was made—this area must not be carved. This base was chosen here because this is where the fabric of the cloak will be. That area can be left untouched for a long time. First, I can work on the body, and later it will be much easier to understand how much material needs to be removed in this place. By that time, all work in the potentially dangerous areas will have long been completed, and the need for a reference platform for measurements and checks will disappear. Everything is quite simple. I do not think I have revealed any techniques that you did not already know, but it is better to share—perhaps it will be useful to someone. At the very least, you will not look at the strange spot in every subsequent frame and wonder why it was not wiped off—it would look untidy otherwise. And gradually, one can begin to indicate where smaller details and nuances will be located. To be continued…

Matthias, thank you very much. This will undoubtedly help with my ideas. Right now, my head feels like a big pot of porridge. In some places it is spilling over, and in others it is already starting to burn. I am thinking about my next works—what projects to take on, and how the entire exhibition should look as a whole. I very much want to manage to do as much as possible by October. It is difficult to convey exactly what I am thinking about and what kinds of logical chains are forming in my head. Your examples are extremely helpful, although they make the porridge in my head boil even more than it did yesterday. But that is a good thing. When there is more than one idea and more than one option, it is always better. At least there is something to choose from. P.S. When I saw your other examples with St. Michael and the bulls from the unnamed ship model, I had the strange suspicion that you somehow see the bookmarks I have been saving during my searches. To select the same ships out of so many is astonishing. If you also show Royal Princess or Victory from 1737 next, I will be genuinely frightened and start to think that there are hidden cameras installed somewhere around me. 🙃

I am honestly shocked and a bit overwhelmed. How do you manage to find a suitable example so quickly? I have been sitting for four days in a row, from morning until evening, going through the list ship by ship and trying to find at least something that fits. And you found a similar сюжет in just a few minutes. How is that even possible? I have never come across this ship before, and I do not have it in my notes. Right now I am trying to find photographs. I have even found a few, but the quality is not very good, and the sculpture is visible only from one side. Are there any archives or libraries where the detailing can be examined more closely? Is there anything in the Greenwich collections? There I found only an engraving and a painting of the ship’s loss, but there seems to be no ship model available for viewing.

While I am preparing the text for the next parts, I will briefly step aside in the narrative with a request for help. For this same project, I am looking for more sculptures, and I need to add a British work with certain characteristics. Ideally, this composition would be perfect: …but it is Danish. Do the English have anything similar? Something with several figures. However, options with horses and riders are not suitable, so no Royal Williams, no Princes, no Georges or Sovereigns. Victory is not acceptable either. And I will not even mention lions—there will be a whole pride of them nearby, so they are not an option as well. I have been scrolling through dozens of images for four days now and still cannot find anything I can choose. Somehow the English seem to struggle with romance and imagination. There are no mythological characters. The French or the Danes have plenty of them—very different ones. But as soon as I need something similar from the English, it suddenly becomes a problem to find anything suitable. Could you suggest what I might look for—something closer to this Dane?

Hello, Matthias. As always, you respond to my story with great attentiveness and continue to help with examples and advice. Thank you very much for that. At this point, I could have stopped, but I would like to add a small clarification. The thing is that I am now telling this story in retrospect—that is, I am writing about what has already happened. At present, this project of mine is almost finished; I am working on the final details. They will not change the situation in any fundamental way, but will only add a few small touches. I decided that this approach would make me feel calmer. During the work, I had many questions and many possible paths for decisions. And I was afraid that at any moment the work might be interrupted and take a completely different direction. Why am I mentioning this? Because I believe that my behavior could unintentionally offend you or someone else. You suggest ideas, I thank you, and then a day later I publish the next part of the story in which there is no mention that I took your suggestions into account. From the outside, this could look rude or incorrect. In reality, I greatly value your attention and the genuine involvement with which you treat my search. It was very interesting for me to think through various nuances, and I decided to talk about this side of the work as well. After all, this part often remains in the shadows—we usually show only the final result. As if everything had been known in advance, and the final version emerged on the first attempt. When in fact it was a long journey, with many questions, reflections, and attempts to reach the desired goal.

With the helmet, things will be simpler. There is not such an abundance of decorative elements here, so there is less to write about. I found the main answer to how I wanted the helmet to look back when I was comparing different variants and existing drawings of Azov and her sister ships. I immediately decided that I would keep the helmet roughly as it appeared in the drawings. I mean the lavish plumes above the helmet. This is a very characteristic feature, and any changes here would be far more noticeable than liberties taken in ornamentation or even in the detailing of the cuirass. I see no reason to radically alter anything about the helmet. This conviction only strengthened when I made the plaster study. I liked the Renaissance-style version—the long visor of the helmet and the rich plumes on top. I assume these are ostrich feathers. There are plenty of sculptural analogues: One could even say that it was precisely the helmet that gave me the impulse for my artistic liberties. Such a helmet sets a Renaissance mood, with its free and lavish interpretations of costume and expression. If the helmet had been truly antique, then everything else would also have had to be done in that style, adhering to more restrained interpretations. But the helmet in the sketch suggested that I had greater freedom of action. The overall appearance could be lush, elaborate, baroque, or more restrained. This gave me room to be bolder. I am not a great expert in military equipment, but it seems that such helmets are called burgonets. More precisely, this is likely a ceremonial or even a fantasy variant. Combat burgonets were simpler and more practical. When I was making the plaster figure, I did not set myself the task of executing the helmet in its final form. I had other goals—I only gave the helmet its basic features and tried to suggest the luxuriant mass of feathers. In the final sculpture, however, I planned to add more detail. First, a laurel wreath had to appear there. The meaning of this element is obvious: it shows that before us is not merely a warrior, but a triumphant one. It also indicates imperial status. Another important element of the helmet was to be a lion’s mask above the visor. The significance of this detail should also be clear. Alexander the Great is depicted either wearing a helmet with a ram’s head or with a lion’s head. I considered ram’s horns inappropriate here, but the lion variant seemed entirely suitable. Thus, my version was meant to lie somewhere at the intersection of these variants. This would establish logical parallels between the two Alexanders and place the Russian emperor alongside his Greek namesake. At this point, I have fully described all my preliminary research. It was very interesting for me to think through and choose between the options. I hope that reading about it was not too tedious. Now, however, it is time to move on to carving the final sculpture.

On both sides of Jupiter, I decided to place the principal victories of Alexander I. During his reign, Russia took part in a series of different wars. But there is no particular sense in accounting for all of the triumphs. One could even mention only a single victory allegorically. Since the subject is the Russo-Turkish War, it would be logical for it to be reflected on the armor. Everything seems consistent. However, I decided that two victories should be shown. This is neither too much, nor just one. And since these references must be composed together with the figure of Jupiter, it is logical that they should be placed on both sides of him. I have already mentioned the Ottoman Empire, and paired with it there must be the victory over Napoleon. What symbols could speak for these countries? Napoleonic France identified itself with the eagle, so let it appear on the cuirass. Depicting a defeated and subdued French eagle is a well-established motif. For example, here, on a commemorative medal, the victory of Great Britain over France is shown. With the Ottoman Empire, however, things are somewhat more complicated. It was not possible to find an animal or bird associated with it that would allow for an ensemble of “beast-countries.” Neither the Ottoman Empire itself, nor anyone else, associated this state with anything of that kind. In all cases where allegories of victory over the Turks were shown in engravings or paintings, they were depicted either as people with large turbans or voluminous trousers, or as banners bearing the crescent. “Well, let it be so,” I decided. However, I soon realized that I would most likely have to depict only France. On one side, the place intended for a relief with the defeated enemy will be covered by the cloak. So be it—it actually makes things a bit easier for me. I also decided that it would be appropriate to show not only the strength and military superiority of the victor. Triumphant figures often try to present themselves as merciful as well, ready to forgive their opponents. This is also a common motif in such allegories. It would be fitting to show that Alexander did not seek to destroy either France or the Ottoman Empire. With the Turks, everything ended when Greece gained its freedom from the Ottoman Empire; with France, it ended with the expulsion of the French from Russia. Allegorically, this can be shown in different ways—for example, by not depicting the eagle as dead, sprawled, or placed under the feet of Jupiter the victor. It is sufficient that it lowers its head before the winner. There are other symbols that indicate that wrath has been restrained. But I decided that at my scale such details would not be visible at all, so there is no point in planning them. As a surrounding element, I decided to add trophy flags behind Jupiter, and to place griffins above the entire composition. At this point, I finished working through the details of the emperor’s cuirass.

Now let us move lower, to the area of the abdomen or the abdominal muscles. What should be depicted here? Essentially, this is often the center of the entire decorative composition and of the allegorical description of the owner of the armor. This is where scenes praising virtues and merits are usually placed, or where victories and conquests are depicted. I examined various options. One could depict it this way, or that way. Or something else entirely. All of these were possible. One simply has to decide what exactly to show. Although there were several options, I decided to settle on placing Jupiter as the main figure at the center. He will be my principal character and the focal point around which everything else will be arranged. Why Jupiter? There are several reasons for choosing this allegory. Let us start with the simplest explanation. This is a fairly standard and frequently used figure on antique armor. This god is perfectly suited as an allegory of power, authority, and might. He stands above all others; he is supreme, and there is no one above him. Who could be a better embodiment of imperial power and strength? If one is to demonstrate one’s power, it makes sense to do so by comparing oneself with someone who stands above all others. That is only logical. But this is not all. I have already said that in my interpretation I want to intertwine several figures at once. I want to show one ruler who places himself on an equal footing with another celebrated ruler. He demonstrates that the coincidence of their names is not accidental, but a sign—an equality in strength, a similarity in greatness, and so on. I hope I have used enough grandiloquent words here. If one is to compare oneself with gods and great rulers of antiquity, there is no reason to be modest with epithets. So, I thought that Jupiter would serve as an excellent link between one Alexander and the other. After all, Alexander the Great considered himself the son of Zeus. Thus Jupiter (who is Zeus) would signify not only supreme power, but also patronage—like a father supporting his famous earthly son. In my mind, there was also a third analogy. Jupiter is often associated with the eagle. This bird was almost like his adjutant and personal companion, and Jupiter himself could also be depicted as an eagle. And this bird, once again, connects the ancient god with the eagle that serves as a symbol of the entire state, since the eagle is a figure of the Russian coat of arms. That is, this is no longer merely an allegory of a single individual—Alexander I—but at the same time a statement that the victor and triumphant force is the entire country. That is quite a turn of thought. So, in the end, Jupiter, according to my idea, should represent the victorious nature of the state, the personal triumph of Alexander I, and at the same time hint at Alexander the Great. …to be continued…

I was satisfied with the results of the preparatory work. I even did more than I had originally planned. Now I am certain that I will make an antique cuirass for my Alexander, rather than chain mail. Which means it is time to talk about my search for how exactly the chest of my sculpture will be decorated. Once again, a substantial section of text follows, devoted to my reflections and research. Perhaps it would have been easier to leave all of this only in my personal memories. But for me, the time spent thinking is no less valuable than the time spent with chisels in my hands. I apologize in advance to those who may not find such reflections very interesting to read. On ancient sculptures, several zones can be identified for placing decorative elements. At the upper part of the chest, one can very often see a gorgoneion — the head of Medusa Gorgon. This decorative element can be called canonical. And here I had no doubts at all. It goes straight into my set of decorations without hesitation. I will not go into the allegorical meaning — everything is obvious and immediately understandable. So, the chest is finished and we can move on… Or rather — no, wait. We are not finished. It is worth pausing here a bit longer. There is something else that I considered and thought through, but for various reasons did not include in my final set. I drew attention to this image. And it interested me. In it, I noticed something that I had not encountered in ancient sculpture. And that is no coincidence, because this is precisely a case where the figure depicted is not an ancient ruler or commander. This is Cosimo I de’ Medici, one of the European rulers of the 16th century. And this bust is exactly an example of a person trying on the image of an ancient character. And in this bust, I was particularly interested in this detail. Looking closer, I realized that this is not just a decoration — it is the pendant of the Order of the Golden Fleece. That is, an award, a badge of distinction, real regalia of this duke, and not an allegorical element like the head of Medusa Gorgon. And this is interesting. After all, I could also show some real orders with which Alexander I was decorated. By the way — what about this Fleece? Here it turns out to be an almost accidental perfect match, because Alexander I was also a knight of this order and had indeed been awarded it. I learned that there are several variations of this order, that they have slight differences, and that it would be important not to make a mistake regarding which version belonged to my Alexander. In short, I was already examining the nuances, searching for ceremonial portraits of Alexander, when I suddenly noticed that in his portraits this pendant is, in fact, absent. No, this is not a mistake — he really was awarded this distinction and had the right to wear it. But he did not. And I began to search for the reason. In the end, everything was confirmed. There were political reasons, and possibly personal ones as well. And I came to the conclusion that including this element would be a mistake for me as well. The second rejected idea concerns elements of personal hints. What do I mean by this? I started thinking: what could be added that would clearly indicate who exactly is depicted here? Of course, the face and portrait likeness come first. But what could appear on the body, on the cuirass? Could there be details that would hint at who stands before us? I had already discarded the idea of showing personal awards. Stars and orders contrasted too sharply with the antique image. So what else could there be? Perhaps a personal monogram somewhere? That was an idea. One could place such decorative attributes somewhere — for example, on the shoulder straps. Often, at the points where these straps attach to the cuirass, cords or buttons, rivets are depicted. And on such an element one could place a personal monogram with initials. That would no longer be just a hint, but a clear indication of the identity. And I began to look at examples of what Alexander I’s personal monogram looked like. I already said that this is a story about ideas that did not go any further and were rejected at the stage of reflection. So what was wrong here? In fact, everything is simple. A monogram with initials has subtle nuances. Yes, initials function like a person’s signature, their identification to others. But it is important to understand in which situations such signs are appropriate — and in which they are not. Alexander could place a seal with his initials, confirming who exactly was the author of certain words. He could sit on a throne bearing his personal monogram. He could use plates, spoons, and other objects marked in this way. But he could not wear his own monogram on his body as part of his attire. Although such monograms did exist — on buttons, epaulettes, and similar items. But not for Alexander himself. How so? It is simple. Essentially, such marks are a continuation of the practice of marking one’s property. Like a brand used by cattle breeders, or an ex libris used by library owners. It is a way to mark something, to show to whom it belongs. Therefore, buttons with imperial initials could belong to the emperor’s personal guard, his adjutants, and other especially close individuals. And this was simultaneously a sign of honor: I am specially chosen, singled out for special service among many others, I have special authority, I act in the name of the emperor himself. And at the same time, it was a sign of personal belonging: I am wearing the mark of my master, therefore I do not belong to myself — I will go where my master sends me. I hope the meaning is clear. Alexander I himself could not bear his own monogram on his person. It would be like a cowboy branding himself with his own mark. So I discarded the idea of including such hints. Why did I decide to spend time describing what was ultimately not adopted? First, because it was an interesting process. Thinking, searching for options — this is very engaging. Various thoughts and ideas arise, and among them are those that do not remain in the end, but still leave a trace. Second, it can be useful. I often write things that I later reread myself. It is a kind of diary for me. With time, precise details may fade from memory, but rereading allows me to refresh my thoughts. Who knows — perhaps someday I will again have to invent the appearance of another historical figure, and this will prove useful once more. Here I will pause. And I will continue further stories about the search for other allegorical details in military attire in the next installment.

Matthias, thank you very much for your reply. You clarified a lot regarding the history of the German navy, and that is very valuable. I enjoy learning more. I am familiar with that Danish lion, but you still made a wonderful gift for me, because in my library I have this lion in much poorer quality. The reason is easy to explain. The overwhelming majority of museum photographs available online are taken by visitors. In that case, they are simply overview shots made on phones. People do not aim to focus on nuances or on proper object photography. One has to rely on modelers, who photograph more meticulously—but such images still have to be found. Or it is better to travel to museums oneself, which is not so easy either. Your story about Wiedevelt is also a tremendous gift. I will try to look for more information about him. Your remarks about his work in Denmark raise a very interesting question: how can specific sculptures be assigned to a national school? If a German created a work in Denmark, where should that work be placed? Is it German, or Danish? Everything is intertwined. One can argue for a territorial principle: if it was made in Denmark and later sailed under the Danish flag, then of course it can be called a Danish work. But at the same time, the author may have created it based on experience and an artistic style that he brought from home—or perhaps even from another country. There are many such examples. For instance, the ship Vasa was Swedish, but it was built by Dutch masters, and the decorative style was theirs as well. Or one can recall how strongly Italian masters influenced Europe during the flowering of the Renaissance—and this affected almost every possible field, from weapons and armor to architecture. And one can discuss endlessly where one artistic school begins and another ends. Where is that boundary?